Pygmalion & Galatea
by Silverlight
Summary: Three wishes, two people and a cat.


**Pygmalion and Galatea**

She looks up from the kitten in her lap. The man standing in front of her is quite young and looks quite unsure of himself. There is a sheen of nervous sweat on his brow. "I'm sorry for intruding," he says in a high voice, "but I don't quite know what I'm doing here. I'm, err, William Shakespeare."

She smiles. "Welcome to my shop. What would you like?"

The strangling noises he makes amuses her, and she stands up, spilling outraged cat and fabric from her lap. She makes a noise under her breath as the bodice adjusts her posture sharply and smiles at her latest customer. He looks at a loss for words and she reaches out with a hand to tilt his chin up so that he will look at her in the eye. "Yes," she murmurs. "I see."

"See what?"

"William Shakespeare, playwright. Born April twenty-six, fifteen hundred and sixty-four. Aspiring actor. Married."

"How did you know?" he asks her sharply.

She lets go of him and he stands very still. "Names have power. You should be careful with yours." she says calmly. Her hair is coiled into an intricate arrangement, one that he has never seen before. "What is your wish, William Shakespeare?"

The kitten winds itself around his feet. He automatically bends down to pet it and it leans into his touch. "I want to be famous and rich. I want to have a wealthy patron. I want my own theatre to perform the plays I write."

She listens to him and nods. "Very well. But even this cannot come for free. What will you pay?"

He looks at her; dark hair and wine-red eyes. She looks like an enchantress, a dark fairy-queen or maybe even a witch. "I will write a play in honour of you," he offers. The kitten purrs its approval.

"I accept," she says and presses a finger on his forehead. "When you walk from here, you will be in London."

He stands up and bows as deeply as he can to her. She does not see him out.

* * *

"Welcome back, Will," she says, flipping through a book. He is much older and there are strands of grey in his hair. His clothing is very fine and colourful and he looks exactly like what he is: a prosperous actor that writes moderately successful plays. "What can I do for you?"

"Make me a legend," he says, without preamble. "Make it so that my name will be on everyone's lips and in their minds. Make it so that I'll never be forgotten."

She puts her book down. It is a copy of his comedy, 'A Midsummer's Night's Dream.' "I am nothing like Titania," she tells him. "Oberon would never have been able to trick me like that."

He coughs. "Well, you see, for the sake of the story, I had to make it so th--"

"YOU MADE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH AN ASS!" she shrieks and flings the book at him. He barely manages to duck in time and there is an indignant hiss behind him. "A DONKEY! AN ANIMAL! DO YOU KNOW HOW DEGRADING THAT IS?"

He is starting to look nervous. "Well...I could always write more..." he says, tentative. She stops and stares at him, her eyes disconcertingly clear. They are not red as he remembered them, but a clear amber.

"You will write many mores plays, William Shakespeare," she says in a severe voice. A black cat sidles up to her and she picks it up and places it on her lap, stroking it. "But I will not grant your other wish."

"Why not?" he asks desperately. "What do you want? Money? I have enough of that, I will pay anything!"

Her hands never stop sliding across the cat's sleek fur. It purrs and she murmurs something to it that sounds like an apology. He clenches his fists and bends to his knees. "Please," he begs.

She is silent for a long moment. Today, she has let her hair down and it covers her shoulders and the black dress she is wearing. Her bodice has been cut so low that on anyone else it would have seemed indecent. "You are asking for immortality. No amount of gold or jewels in this world can pay for that."

"What do you want? My life? I will pay anything," he says.

She gives him a hard, piercing look. His eyes are beadier up close than they are on the stage and his hands have been permanently stained with ink. He looks as if he has never been plagued with writer's block or an actor's fear. He has become too sure of himself, too reckless. "Very well," she says finally. "A life to become a legend. It is a fair price."

"Thank you!" he says, and grabs her hand to kiss it. The cat growls when he pets it very briefly and then he is gone.

* * *

She visits him this time. He is not old, but very ill. His hair is mostly grey now and the air around him smells strange.

"I hoped I would see you again," he says with a flicker of a smile. "That was my last wish."

"I know." She kneels next to him and he takes her hand in his trembling ones. "Witches aren't like that, you know."

He opens his mouth to say something but coughs instead. She takes out a handkerchief and wipes her face delicately before offering it to him. He refuses and she places it on his bedstand. "I was angry with you. For taking away Hamnet, I mean," he said.

"Goneril wasn't bad. Reagan lacked character though," she continues, ignoring him. "And Lady Macbeth was a little too ambitious to be me. The witches were a nice touch. A little one-dimensional, but a nice touch nevertheless. I won't count Ophelia; I really didn't like her."

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He glances at her; she is wearing black today and her hair has been braided and pinned. Her skirts look and sound like silk, rustling with every movement she makes. She looks the same. "If I could, I would write one more play for you," he says. "It would be about a man called William who fell in love with a beautiful woman with dark hair. When he wrote plays, she made them famous. When he asked for treasure and she would point his way to a secret cave. She would be the Venus to his Pygmalion." He pauses and she reaches out to brush away a tendril of sweat-soaked hair. "It's my birthday today. Can you..." he stops, unable to continue.

"For a price," she tells him.

He smiles. "I've already made preparations for that. Will my best bed be enough?"

"It will be enough." She stands then bends over and kisses his forehead. "Go to sleep, Will."

"Oh Lady Fortune," he breathes and closes his eyes.

_end_

August 2005

* * *

**Notes: **For the August 2005 theme in the 31days comm on livejournal. August 24: I am waylaid by Beauty.

Hamnet is Shakespeare's son who died tragically young. Shakespeare left his wife, Anne, the second best bed. The second idea I must attribute to Suppi-chan and the idea for the fic itself is lacewood's.

I've remembered incorrectly; Yuuko in the first tank says that she would never take a life as payment for any wish. >> Ignore it if you wish. May take down and rewrite if I'm not feeling lazy.

Comments t'would be greatly appreciated.


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